Page 55

MIRA

I stand in the courtyard of what used to be Remanos’s estate, heart thrumming with equal parts anticipation and wonder.

The midday sun throws mottled shadows across newly placed columns and banners Freedmen have decorated for this occasion.

Just days ago, these same halls echoed with fear, conspiracies, and talk of handing me over to orcs as some twisted trophy.

Now, I’m here not as a spoil, but as a partner and equal—a soon-to-be lifemate in a rite dear to minotaur tradition.

Around me, Freedmen bustle with last-minute preparations, affixing small lanterns and soft streamers onto the columns.

A hush of excitement permeates the air, as if everyone can’t quite believe we have time for celebration.

But we do—at least for a few precious hours, the city is at rest, free from the threat of conspirators or orc warbands.

Tiro, a young Freedman guard, catches sight of me and beams. “Mira,” he greets, slightly out of breath, “the altar is ready near the old colosseum steps. The crafters finished the base platform just this morning. Will you head there soon?”

My cheeks warm, pulse skipping at the thought of what’s to come.

“Yes,” I say softly. “I’ll go in a moment.

” Nerves flutter low in my belly. I’m not entirely sure what to expect.

This is a minotaur ceremony—a union known as the ‘lifemate rite.’ Remanos tried explaining the layers of veils, the burnt offering, the blessings, but I still can’t picture it fully.

My breath hitches, remembering how resolute he was that we do this as equals, that no one would treat me as a ‘spoil’ ever again.

I move through the courtyard, Freedmen stepping aside, offering kind smiles and murmured congratulations.

Some crafters nod in approval, apparently enthralled by the idea that a minotaur champion—or ex-champion, I remind myself—will stand as lifemates with a once-imprisoned human.

An older Freedman woman hands me a small bouquet of orchard blossoms. “For luck, dear,” she whispers, eyes shining. I thank her, touched by the gesture.

Finally, I slip into a side chamber lit by a single lantern.

There, Tila—a Freedman friend—waits with an armful of gauzy fabric in pastel colors.

Her cheeks flame in excitement, and I realize these must be the ceremonial veils.

My heart clenches, recalling how minotaurs use these layered veils in their mating rite: each layer representing a part of one’s life—childhood, trials, sorrows, hopes.

In private, the groom peels them away, symbolically accepting every facet of his mate’s history.

Tila steps forward, carefully draping the first filmy layer across my shoulders and upper body.

The fabric is almost transparent, a hint of pink hue.

She arranges it gently, her lips quivering in a smile.

“We Freedmen consulted an old minotaur priestess. We know how the color layers work. We tried our best to replicate them for you.”

I glance down at the shimmering fabric. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

I close my eyes as Tila layers the second veil, a pale lilac piece over the first. She quietly names each color’s meaning.

“Peach for birth,” she murmurs, “lavender for adversity and healing.” My throat tightens.

Thinking of adversity, so much sweeps through my mind—my captivity by orcs, the Senate’s attempts to brand me a spoil, fighting side by side with Remanos to unearth Vaelen’s conspiracies.

I brush away the sting of tears. Today isn’t about sorrow, but about emerging from it.

Tila continues layering. A soft green for renewal, a warm gold for triumph.

By the time the final layer, a deeper pink, falls across my shoulders, I feel cocooned in gentle color.

My face is partially obscured by translucent folds.

I breathe carefully, reminding myself that in private, Remanos will peel these layers away as we consummate our bond.

My cheeks flame at that thought, but an undercurrent of anticipation ignites my blood.

I recall the gentle press of his mouth the night after we drove out the orcs, how his whispered vow turned my world bright.

Tila finishes with a flourish, stepping back. “You look radiant,” she declares, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t believe the city’s doing this for you—everyone wants to witness the burnt offering. They say it’s a sign we Freedmen will carry new traditions.”

I manage a shaky laugh, unable to express the swirl of gratitude. “It’s not just for me,” I correct softly. “Remanos insisted the entire city be invited, to show Freedmen’s acceptance. He says this ceremony is for all.”

Tila nods, a grin tugging her lips. “Then let’s go. The altar is only a short walk away.”

I breathe in, my veils shifting around me with a whisper of fabric.

My reflection in a polished metal mirror startles me—I look ethereal, every layer representing the life that led me here.

Part of me can’t believe I’m about to pledge lifemates with a minotaur who once wanted no part in claiming me.

Smiling at the irony, I tilt my chin, feeling a surge of confidence.

I choose this, and Remanos chooses me, on equal terms.

Tila and another Freedman girl, Kella, guide me out of the chamber.

We emerge onto a path lined with orchard blossoms. Freedmen stand on either side, hushed smiles lighting their faces.

I hold the small bouquet from earlier, heart fluttering.

In the distance, I see the colosseum’s arches, half-lost in bright afternoon sun.

A wooden platform is erected near the steps—an improvised altar.

As we approach, a hush settles over the onlookers.

Crafters, Freedmen, city watchers, and even a scattering of senators watch from a respectful distance.

Some hold bouquets of orchard flowers or wave cloth banners dyed in Freedmen’s colors.

My pulse races, noticing a priestess in simple robes near the platform, a small brazier crackling at her side. This must be the moment.

Remanos stands by the altar, flanked by Tiro and a couple Freedmen.

He wears plain leathers, not champion’s regalia—he gave that up long ago.

Yet I’ve never seen him look more regal.

My breath catches at his broad shoulders, the gentle tilt of his horns, his dark eyes fixed on me so fiercely it sends heat racing through my veins.

The bruises on his arms peek from beneath rolled sleeves, reminders of our battles, but he looks calm, steady.

I step forward alone, Freedmen parting behind me, letting me approach the altar.

My veils rustle around my body, tinted sunlight painting me in faint color.

My gaze locks onto Remanos, and the rest of the crowd falls away like a distant blur.

The hush grows profound, the only sound my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

He offers a small, tender smile, eyes flicking with admiration at the layered veils.

The priestess, a soft-spoken older minotaur woman, lifts her arms. “We gather to bless the union of two souls, forging a lifemate bond in the eyes of Zukiev, the Lady of Light, who first birthed our people’s spirit. Let all bear witness, Freedmen and crafters, city watchers and guests.”

A gentle murmur runs through the crowd, and then the priestess beckons me to stand beside Remanos, the brazier’s smoke curling in faint spirals.

I move carefully, veils shifting with each step.

My entire body trembles with a mix of reverence and excitement.

I glance at Remanos, who nods encouragement, and I lift my chin to meet the priestess’s solemn gaze.

She produces a small bundle of herbs and sprinkles them into the brazier.

Fragrant smoke wafts up. The orchard blossoms in my arms flutter as I tremble.

The priestess intones, “We burn this offering as a sign of unity, calling upon the Lady of Light to bless these two. As is tradition, we ask each lifemate for their vow—our goddess does not look for champion’s rank, but for honesty and love. ”

I swallow, clearing my throat, letting the moment settle.

Freedmen watch with rapt attention. My voice emerges softly, but it carries in the hush.

“I vow to stand by Remanos as an equal, never again bowed by fear or forced by tradition. I choose him as he is, no illusions. I accept his past, and he accepts mine. Together we shape our future.”

The priestess smiles kindly, nodding. Then she turns to Remanos, who fixes me with a gaze so warm it nearly undoes me.

His voice rumbles, quiet yet strong, “I vow to share my life with Mira. No rank or vow to the Senate binds me. I cast aside old illusions that once enslaved us both. Mira stands as my equal, my beloved, and I pledge all I am to her. Freed from champion’s shackles, I choose her willingly. ”

A pang of emotion seizes my chest, tears welling.

Freedmen sniffle in the crowd. The priestess raises her hands again.

“These pledges are heard. Now we kindle the burnt offering to show we accept the goddess’s witness.

” She drops a twist of fragrant resin into the brazier, flames leaping high.

A hush, punctuated by soft murmurs of awe, washes over us.

She nods to me, indicating I should place my orchard flowers in the flame.

My hands shake. I press them forward, feeling the heat lick at my wrists.

The flowers catch, curling as the sweet smoke intensifies.

My heart hammers. Remanos gently adds a small, carved wooden token—an old arena bracer seal.

Freedmen exhale in wonder as the token blackens, releasing the last symbol of his champion rank into the fire.